"They're people who don't care how they make their money."
"You want to penalize Verrick because he's a success? He's made this Hill run. Is it his fault nobody else can operate like he can? There's a natural selection and evolution. Those who can't survive fall by the way."
"Verrick fired our research labs."
"Our? Say, you're with Verrick, now." Davis' indignation boiled over. "That's a hell of a way to talk! Verrick is your protector and you're standing here—"
"All right, boys," Laura exclaimed, cheeks flushed with domestic prowess. "Dinner's on the table, and I want you to go get some chairs for us to sit on. Al, you wash your hands before we eat. And put on your shoes."
"Sure, honey," Davis said obediently, getting to his feet
"Can I help?" Benteley asked.
"Just find yourself a chair and sit down. We have real coffee. Do you take cream? I can't remember."
"Yes," Benteley said. "Thanks." He pulled up a couple of chairs and sat down moodily.
"Don't look so sad," Laura said to him. "See what you're getting to eat. Aren't you living with Julie any more? I'll bet you eat out all the time, at restaurants where they serve that awful protine stuff."
Benteley toyed with his knife and fork. "You have a nice place here," he said presently.
"When I saw you last you were living in a Hill dorm. But you weren't married then."
"Remember when you and I were living together?" Laura began cutting the twine that held the rolled-roast together. "That wasn't more than a month, as I remember.".
"A little under a month," Benteley agreed, remembering back. He relaxed somewhat, thawed by the smell of hot food, the bright living room, the pretty woman sitting across from him.
"That's when you were still under fealty to Oiseau-Lyre, before you lost your classification."
Al appeared, sat down, unfolded his napkin, and rubbed his hands together with anticipation. "It sure smells good," he announced. "Let's get going; I'm starved."
While they ate, the tv murmured and spilled out a flickering tide of light into the living room. Benteley listened between conversations, his mind only half on what Laura and Al were saying.
"... Quizmaster Cartwright has announced the dismissal of two hundred Directorate employees," the announcer was saying. "The reason given is b.s.r."
"Bad security risk," Laura murmured, sipping her coffee. "That's what they always say."
The announcer continued:
... Convention plans are booming. Already, hundreds of thousands of applications are flooding the Convention Board and the Westinghouse Hill office. Reese Verrick, the former Quizmaster, has agreed to handle the multiplying technical details in order to set in motion what promises to be the most exciting and spectacular event of the decade...
"You bet," Al said. "Verrick has that Hill under lock. He'll have this thing humming."
"Is old Judge Waring still sitting on the Board?" Laura asked him. "He must be a hundred years old, by now."
"He's still on the Board. He won't resign, not until he's dead. That crusty old fossil! He ought to get out of the way and let somebody younger take over."
"But he knows everything about the Challenge," Laura said. "He's kept it all on a high moral plane. I remember when I was a little girl still in school; that Quizmaster was quacked, that funny one who stuttered. And that good-looking young man got in, that black-haired assassin who made such a wonderful Quizmaster. And old Judge Waring set up the Board and ruled over the Convention like Jehovah in the old Christian myths."
"He has a beard," Benteley said.
"A long white beard."
The tv set had changed announcers. A view of the massive auditorium in which the Convention was being formed swam into focus. Seats were already set up, and the huge platform at which the Board sat in judgment. People milled back and forth; the auditorium boomed and echoed with sounds of furious activity and shouted instructions.
"Just think," Laura said. "All that momentous business going on while we sit here quietly eating our dinner."
"It's a long way off," Al said indifferently.
... Reese Verrick's offer of a million gold dollars has galvanized the Convention proceedings. Statisticians estimate a record number of applications—and they're still pouring in. Everybody is eager to try his hand at the most daring role in the system, the greatest risk and the highest stakes. The eyes of six billion people on nine planets are turned on the Westinghouse Hill tonight. Who will the first assassin be? Out of these many brilliant applicants, representing all classes and Hills, who will be the first to try his hand for the million gold dollars and the applause and acclamation of a whole civilization?
"How about you?" Laura said suddenly to Benteley. "Why don't you put in your application? You don't have an assignment, right now."
"It's out of my line."
Laura laughed. "Make it your line! Al, don't we have that big tape they put out, all the successful assassins of the past, their lives and everything about them? Show it to Ted."
"I've seen it," Benteley said curtly.
"When you were a boy, didn't you dream of growing up to be a successful assassin?"
Laura's brown eyes were dim with nostalgia. "I remember how I hated being a girl because then I couldn't be an assassin when I grew up. I bought a lot of charms, but they didn't turn me into a boy."
Al Davis pushed his empty plate away with a gratified belch. "Can I let out my belt?"
"Sure," Laura said.
Al let out his belt. "That was a good meal, honey. I wouldn't mind eating like that every day."
"You do, practically." Laura finished her coffee and daintily touched her napkin to her lips. "More coffee, Ted?"
... Experts predict the first assassin will have a seventy-thirty chance of destroying Quizmaster Cartwright and winning the million dollar prize put up by Reese Verrick, the previous Quizmaster, quacked less than twenty-four hours ago by an unexpected twitch of the bottle. If the first assassin fails, the dopesters have their money sixty-forty on the second assassin. According to their scratch sheets Cartwright will have better control over his army and telepathic Corps after the initial two days. For the assassin, speed rather than form will count high, especially in the opening phase. During the last lap the situation will be tight because of...
"There's already a lot of private betting," Laura said. She leaned contentedly back, a cigarette between her fingers, and smiled at Benteley. "It's good to have you come by again. You think you'll move your things here to Farben? You could stay with us for awhile, until you find a decent place."
"A lot of places that used to be good are being taken over by unks," Al observed.
"They're moving everywhere," Laura agreed. "Ted, remember that wonderful area near the synthetics research lab? All those new housing units, those green and pink buildings? Unks are living there, and naturally it's all run down and dirty and bad-smelling. It's a disgrace; why don't they sign up for work-camps? That's where they belong, not loafing around here."
Al yawned. "I'm sleepy." He picked a date from the bowl in the center of the table. "A date. What the hell's a date?" He ate it slowly. "Too sweet. What planet's it from? Venus? It tastes like one of those pulpy Venusian fruits."
"It's from Asia Minor," Laura said.
"Here on Earth? Who muted it?"
"Nobody. It's a natural fruit. From a palm tree."
Al shook his head wonderingly. "The infinite diversity of God's creations."
Laura was shocked. "Suppose somebody at work heard you talk like thatl"